Conspecificity
by Blue Funk
Summary: It was bad enough being seduced by a man wearing loafers and a shirt with palm trees on it. It was even worse to realize that he didn't want him to stop. Arthur.Eames


He scrounged angrily among the fallen discards from the previous night, rummaging in slacks and digging through coat pockets. His fingers itched for the precise weight, the smooth edges, the comfort of reality. It was difficult with the haze of rum on his brain and the blades of sunlight cutting their way across the carpet. Knives of white on an ocean of fuzzy blue, stabbing into his aching head as he tried to claw his way through a pair of trousers; not his own.

Unfortunately, this morning, this horrible, particularly scarring morning, reality didn't seem too eager to be discovered and Arthur's beloved die was nowhere to be found. He wanted to pound the floor in frustration, or perhaps pull out his glock and get rid of the _witness_, but instead, he continued searching.

There was a rustle of sheets behind him, accompanied with a lazy yawn that held the faintest of chuckles, "Really, dearest, there's no reason to be awake at this sort of hour."

"_Eames_." Ah. The witness had awoken. Arthur froze, one hand snagged around the waistband of his boxers, lips turning into a frown that pulled his forehead so far down that the creases could hide secrets. Angry, murderous ones. Rising in a fluid motion, he turned his glare onto the man who was sprawled in bed, just as naked as he was, but distinctly more pleased with himself if the shit-eating grin on his face wasn't enough of a clue.

"Where is it, Eames?" The point man said in a hard, controlled voice that held every layer of fury in the tense words.

With a grunt, the Brit tucked his hands behind his head and completely disregarded the question and Arthur's growing irritation, "Let us not beat around the bush, my dear Arthur, we both know that we are in solid reality with no inkling of dreaming about us. And, certainly, with the way you insisted on my persistence last night, I can reassure you that very little delving into slumber was had anyway."

"_Fuck, Eames. _Harder_." Stern growls and vicious hands ripped at flesh, "Harder!"_

"_Anything to oblige, Arthur…" _

_Sweaty palms, moaning throats, ferocious lust and hunger, shaking the very roots of their adrenaline-fueled bodies. So very real, so very solid and undream-like. It was something about how Eames was curling one large hand around the base of his neck, thumb rubbing against his ear, that was forcibly reminding him that he wasn't asleep. _

Memories were so much harder to avoid than people. Unflinching at the reminder of what had happened the previous night, Arthur avoided the other man's contented smile and scowled at him instead, still unabashedly undressed, which Eames didn't seem to have any qualms about.

"You have no right to take my totem." Arthur said in his usual soft tone, visibly swallowing as he bit down on the urge to throttle the pompous man in bed with the boxers he still had in his white-knuckled grip. "So tell me where it is before I just test whether or not you're real by shooting you at point-blank range."

He could do it. Just kill him. Right there. Really, the only thing holding him back was Cobb's unavoidable disapproval.

The English-man rolled his eyes, ignorant of Arthur's turmoil and obviously unimpressed with this response. At least it had been enough to stop him from continuing to stare at Arthur's groin, "Why Cobb keeps you around with that sort of dismal mentality, I don't know, I really don't."

A lazy hand flopped out of the covers to point to the nearby table that came with every typical hotel room. A generic brown, boring, boasting only a mirror above it on the wall, a laptop on its surface and … Arthur's vest, a neat pinstripe, neatly thrown across the chair. Without a glance at Eames, the American stormed across plush carpet to his last article of clothing that had gone unchecked. Sure enough, seconds of prying fingers into the only small pocket eventually brushed across the familiar feel of the red cube.

Holding his breath with lips pursed, Arthur tossed the precious item onto the table, focusing on the clatter of plastic on loaded plastic. He would have watched. He wanted to watch the act of it landing on the wrong number, wanted the relief of seeing that he was in a world that could create paradoxes and that Eames hadn't finally gotten his way last night.

Which is why he despised every part of his being that made him unconsciously look up, ears filled with the roll of chance, into the mirror to see the forger watching, no longer smiling but waiting for the truth to sink in. Shifting his gaze uneasily, Arthur could see himself as well. His eyes were bloodshot and graced with heavy luggage, his hair mussed and pillow-ruffled, and his neck… _shit_.

It was silent. Glancing away from the blaring scarlet bites on his pale throat, Arthur looked down to see a single pip staring at him with an almost apologetic glare.

Only his loaded die rolled to the unlucky half of a pair of snake eyes when he was awake. Dreams made him lucky. Reality brought him down to nothing, even if he was on top of the world.

And Arthur was certainly feeling like he had fallen from the peaks of luck, at any rate. Because he wasn't dreaming, he was standing naked in a hotel room with Eames being a vile bastard in the bed they had shared behind him, and there were marks of the forger's teeth all over his body.

No, at this rate, this was definitely no dream.

It was a nightmare.

"Are we satisfied now, love?"

The traitorous die went back into the vest pocket. "The idea of shooting you in the head still isn't off the table." Arthur muttered irritably, refusing to turn around and instead deciding to grapple with putting boxers on while standing. If he was going to start punching Eames repeatedly in the face, he would need to have at least some dignity about him while he did it.

To put things in perspective, the entire sham of an espionage had gotten its first leg out the door a month beforehand.

Arthur had been serving Dom Cobb for almost two years before Mal's tragic loss of reality and subsequent death. He had been loyal, faithful, and one of Dom's closest friends. He had walked away from family and close acquaintances to delve into dreams and absolute creation in its purest form. He had never regretted it, and the chance to do something a little bit better than a paper pushing in a cubicle didn't hurt.

Instead, he was a point man. The head of the line of battle, the coordinator, the researcher, and he was one of the best. He and Cobb had seamlessly worked through many extractions together. They had earned their reputations fair and square.

Unfortunately, all of that hadn't stopped Dom from going into a reclusive state after the death of his wife. For almost 6 months, he remained in various parts of Europe, not wishing to be found, and after a while, even Arthur was forced to give up and accept that for the time being, he would have to return to a normal life.

In other words, he sat around his apartment in irritation for those six months, not knowing what to do with himself and abusing the PASIV device Cobb had left with him to an almost dangerous level. He dreamed. For weeks, he dreamed, trained, planned, and became a better addition to an extraction team in case, for whatever reason, Dom came back. Or, worst case scenario, Arthur cracked from his 'normalcy' and sought out a new team to work with.

Every phone call made him jump for the better part of his forced vacation; any of them could have been Cobb.

Every one of them was a stark reminder that Cobb was gone. Goddamn telemarketers.

By the end, the stagnant lifestyle had nearly oppressed him. He had picked up reading, scouring through new dream theory papers that had fascinated him in his college years. Eventually, he even wrote up a few of his own.

Who knew where Cobb had gotten to? He could have been dead. Perhaps arrested. Maybe the man had even abandoned his old life and found a new point man. A new beginning.

And that tiny voice in his head finally piped up as well, saying what Arthur had been too uneasy to say himself.

"_Maybe it's time you find your own new beginning."_

The PASIV had already been put away once the somnacin had run out. It was collecting dust by the time the point man decided that perhaps the time to move on had come. Set aside his research, pack up his suits, and accept that for now, reality was where he would be staying.

Arthur had been packing away his totem when his phone rang, the caller ID lighting up with an unknown number. Reason dictated that he let it ring through, that he was done waiting for Cobb, but against his better judgment, he picked up anyway, prepared for the let-down, the painful punch to the gut.

"Arthur."

Everything that Arthur had been holding in his arms tumbled to the ground, including the die.

"Cobb."

"Listen. I can't talk for long. Can I trust you to meet me in a month's time at Omar Khayyam?"

His palms were sweaty, the cell phone was slipping from his fingers. "The _casino_? Cobb, what-"

"I'm sorry, that's all I can say on this line. Oh. And look up whatever you can on a man named Eames. I need you prepared, he's going to be working with us. So. Will you come?"

"O-of course, Cobb. You know I would."

"Good." A hesitant pause. "Thank you, Arthur."

And that was it. Half a year of silence, and then Cobb returned with an order for Arthur to go to an Egyptian casino with no words of why or for what. The point man stared down blankly at his phone, wondering why the need for mystery and unanswered questions. But, then again, it was plain enough that a simple phone call would not be enough to explain everything. The orders had been sent, now it was time to decide whether he was still capable of following them.

He began to pack.

First order of business: dust off his precious Italian suits that had been sadly wasting away in his dressers and burn the sweatpants and T-shirts he had been wearing over the past months.

Second was Eames. As promised, in the allotted month that Cobb had given him, Arthur did his research. He was a bit rusty with the 'research with intent' approach rather than the aimless searches he had been entertaining himself with over the course of half a year, but like a bad habit, the point man fell back into it all too easily.

However, this Eames, whoever he was, proved to be elusive. There was no doubt that the man was not someone who wanted to be found or looked up on any databases. So beyond his gender, there was little else to find. And while Arthur thought _he_ had been good at covering his tracks, Eames was even better. A lot better.

There were no medical records, birth records, credit cards, purchases, and there was not even a security camera still or parking ticket for Arthur to work off of. It was like the man did not exist. An almost impossible feat in this day's digital age, and something that actually would have earned Eames a bit of grudging admiration from the point man, if not for the fact that the lack of solid data was getting troublesome. But Arthur was diligent, and where others would stop, he kept digging until finally, he struck a tiny bit of luck.

A government file from the Secret Intelligence Service. There was only one name close to what he wanted; F. Eameson. It was good enough. And it was also unsatisfactory. There was no photo. There really wasn't much of anything.

What Arthur could vaguely deduce was that the elusive Eames had gone through so many aliases that his true name had been concealed in the common bunch; he probably had not even bothered covering up his real files. Why bother when the rest of the world did not know it? He was also probably English, if the SIS was to be trusted. And aside from a very incomplete file with most tabs marked "unknown," the only other information was a list of casinos that the man had been banned from, kicked out of, or robbed.

Unfortunately, the most recent of the robberies had taken place over six years ago, so that left Arthur, once again, at a dead end. No references to dream-heists, no profound crimes or mentions even in the deeper circles. It was a rare moment when Arthur put effort into research, only to come up empty-handed, but a defeat was a defeat. He just hoped that Eames was as good as his lack of a file said he was. There was nothing more he could do on that note.

So, loaded with what little information he had on Eames, the faceless casino-rat, a suitcase, and the PASIV device, Arthur went to Egypt.

Omar Khayyam was one of the more well-known casinos in the North African country; located especially close to all the right tourist traps and historical locations also helped. It was also a small den of memories for Arthur, both pleasant and … less so.

It was the place where Arthur had lost his first sum of money whilst gambling. Which didn't really sound like much, considering that he had been 18 and a bit of an idiot, but as he had learned, even the smallest action had repercussions.

The reason he had gone there in the first place needed a back-story.

Arthur's parents had been scientists, researchers for the military program that would eventually develop dream-sharing. Project Somnacin. Returning from a trip to Japan to inspect an in-progress development of the 'dream drug,' as they called it, the layover had taken them to Egypt. It was the first time Arthur had accompanied them on a business trip; before, he had always stayed at home, unaware of why they were always moving under the Witness Protection Program. Witnesses to what? Protection from what?

So when he turned 18, his parents finally told him. Why, though his name was Arthur, his documents said "Alex" and his friends from school called him "Ben" and kids from his college would know him as "Charlie."

He and his family were witnesses to one of America's most secretive projects at the time, working with deadly warfare training tactics and a chemical that had the power to subdue men and send them into a world of nightmares. And they needed protection from others who would use this for their own personal benefit

Truly, it was an almost fitting childhood for someone who would become a point man for a team of dream-sharing thieves. He even had the perfect cover for his identity; Arthur did not really exist. Not in paper, not in databases, not at all.

Which was why, at 18, his parents had handed him $150 and a driver's license under the name of Michael Whitley in front of Omar Khayyam and told him to go entertain himself while they took a few calls and, as usual, worked.

Arthur had never been in a casino before. The bright lights made the whole place look like an amusement park, while the women strutting about in their finest furs and the massive amounts of money thrown away created an irresistible illusion of grandeur. Eagerly holding his money, the teenager had delved in. An hour later, Arthur had blown all $150 at the craps table with magnificent aplomb and a newfound, growing addiction to the excitement of gambling.

It was the rush. The thrill of adrenaline that made it one of his biggest vices, his biggest weaknesses. There was something in the way that men could disregard logic and play by ear, or approach it mathematically, subtly counting cards and holding their chips like they were lifelines. Anything could either break him or reward him. The money was nice, of course, but Arthur hadn't allowed himself to fall victim to cards and dice because of it. It was an addiction to chance and luck. And eventually, cheating. Because he could do it. And why not exploit a natural talent?

Loaded die, switched cards, one-time accomplices. While he was studying as a full-time student, he was also constructing his own methods of breaking the system and outwitting dealers and players. Nothing ever too serious. He never played for millions. After all, the last thing he wanted to do was draw too much attention to himself.

Unavoidably, the very thing that had stirred life into his veins also made his blood fester and rot. It took five years of forcing himself to walk away from all of it before he finally found another way of satisfying himself; dream-sharing. Not exactly the healthiest exit out of a serious problem, but at least he wasn't losing money over it anymore. He was still making it _illegally_, but those were details.

Omar Khayyam had not changed much in fifteen or so years. It was still flashy, gaudy, and filled with women that were a tad too loose and men who played a tad too loose.

After settling in his room in the hotel next to the casino, the American attempted to brave the crowd of tourists and gamblers eager to lose grievous amounts of cash. Arthur tried to keep the smile off his face, in case it made him look suspicious, but it was hard to resist. Memories were memories, unpleasant or not.

Since he had no idea of Cobb's whereabouts, it was safe to assume that he would have to find some way to keep himself busy. Especially since his fingers were already itching, brain buzzing as he passed table after table of poker, Texas Hold'Em, and finally, craps. It was a game that Arthur had a very trying relationship with. He always came back to it, but couldn't help cheating on it.

Loitering around the crowd a moment, Arthur tried to resist, knowing that it was for the best if he didn't tempt himself again, but ultimately took a seat as an observer, noting that the man directly across from him was having impressive throws of the dice.

Perhaps he was winning naturally. Chances were that he wasn't. Curious, Arthur watched the player throw another winning pair, which apparently delighted the two girls along side him, who eagerly squealed and planted kisses on the gambling stranger. A closer look didn't help Arthur assess him any better in terms of playing, but it was enough to see that the other man had absolutely no sense of fashion.

Paired with scruff and a loud laugh, there was a dress shirt adorned with pale green palm trees, open loosely at the neck to reveal a gold chain and a hint of multiple tattoos. Black corduroy pants, and if Arthur wasn't mistaken… white loafers.

Oh god, he was a travesty. With an anxious fix of his tie, the point man rose to leave, but his arm was immediately tugged on. It was a shadow-like tug, and Arthur could not see who had done it, but as he looked down, he saw a small folded note that had surely not been there before.

Glancing around to make sure no one else had seen, he sat again. So Cobb was lying low. That didn't exactly sound unlike him. The note, after being gently unfolded, was brief, to the point, and in Dom's handwriting.

"Room 1821, 10:00 PM."

Arthur sighed and turned back to the craps game. He still had twenty minutes before he was supposed to meet the man. It looked like he had no choice but to stay.

It was a very brief 20 minutes. The gambler, English, as it turned out, not only provided ample entertainment by bantering with the other players and teasing the girls who sat with him, but by giving the crowd impressive wins and even more dramatic losses that he quickly won back.

Arthur stayed silent, chin resting on clasped hands as he watched the other twist the crowd around his finger, sharp eyes waiting for a tell, for a sign of some sort of cheat. Not that it was any of his business, and he certainly would not call him out on it, but it was more for curiosity's sake. Surely, after spending so long in the business himself, he could still pick out another man of the trade.

But no. No set up cards, no lip twitches that would have given away card counting, not even another player that could have been helping the man along. For all Arthur knew, the whole crowd could have been paid off for the sake of fooling the dealer. But even that didn't seem likely. Perhaps the gambler had found a new way of wriggling out of fair play. Either way, the point man didn't see how the Englishman was playing by the rules.

With a minute to go before he had to meet Cobb, Arthur lingered to see the final bet. Mr. Palm Trees was playing a risky game, putting in all of his chips for the last time. The girls were squealing again, warning him not to do it. The other players were smirking, and the stranger was still joking with members of the crowd around him, arms off the table, sleeves wide, open, and not capable of hiding extra cards.

Arthur hadn't seen the talkative gambler look at him once the entire game. Perhaps he hadn't looked drunk enough. Maybe the bimbos on his arms were too distracting.

Now, the ill-dressed man suddenly grinned, looking directly up across the table and extending his dice-filled hand briefly towards Arthur, carrying the attention of the rest of the crowd with him. It was like a spotlight had moved, and Mr. Palm's voice easily carried over the hushed audience. It was like the noise had been sucked out of the room.

"To the pretty gentleman before me."

_Two things happened in that moment; the first was the velvety twitch of the stranger's _arm, a loud signal only in Arthur's eyes, a damn announcement to the distracted world that he had switched out his loaded instruments of unfair gambling, that he had been using the crowd to occasionally roll in loaded die.

And the second was the very firm and very solid decision that Arthur absolutely despised the man before him, from his scruff down to his ridiculous loafers.

Even in the dim light, Arthur didn't miss the grey glint in the stranger's eyes as their gazes met for the first time. There was a mixed hint of sly amusement in the other man's stare that made Arthur's teeth automatically clench. That and the laughter and stares stemming from the gambler's bold announcement. Scowling, Arthur tried fiercely to will away the blood that was rushing to his ears and undoubtedly staining them pink.

Blushing like a goddamn teenager. _I've been out of work too long_, the point man thought angrily, continuing to frown at the other bold gentleman long after he had looked away to throw a predictable pair of sevens and round out his wins in Arthur's name. Arthur could easily read this man; that was easy enough, even from the small 20 minute session of observation.

He was pompous, overconfident but not without reason, snarky, and annoyingly laid-back. But it was the single stare he had received that worried the American; this particular gentleman was something that was not regular for someone of his kind; he was intelligent and cunning, and, even worse, it seemed that he could see through Arthur just as easily as he could see through him. This wasn't just a gambler who didn't play by the rules. This was a professional.

Bottom line, this man was dangerous.

A distracted glance at his watch informed Arthur that he had wasted enough time people watching. With a final nod to the dealer, the point man slipped away to meet Cobb and the mysterious Eames and, more importantly, to put the perturbing Englishman behind him.

He dodged around the meandering showgirls, side-stepped the black-clad security grunts who cast him blank, gruff looks, before eventually making his way back to the hotel and managing to find haven in an empty elevator with no more than a slight wrinkle in his jacket. Arthur even allowed himself a small sigh of relief as he nudged the button for the 18th floor. Though he didn't care to admit it, even to himself, he truly had been wallowing in normalcy too long; being surrounded by his former vices was becoming akin to rubbing salt into a freshly healed cut.

His _nerves_ were practically twitching. Something he surely could not afford for the mission. All of his worries from a month ago came pounding back. What had Cobb been up to since Mal's death two years ago? And what had prompted this sudden insurgence of activity that had dragged Arthur out of his grim resignation? More importantly, why were they in this goddamn casino with goddamn Englishmen like Mr. Palm Trees?

A sudden jerk of the elevator doors brought Arthur back to reality, forcing his eyes to flick up to the source of the problem. There was a hand stuck between the doors, preventing their closure and Arthur's privacy.

_No… no it can't be-_It was.

A trend was appearing in terms of Arthur putting things behind him, both literally and figuratively. A trend that whatever was put in the past was refusing to stay there, dead and buried. So much for escape. Trying to keep the look of horror mingled with irritation off his face, Arthur had nothing else to do but watch the gambler from the craps table slide into his precious elevator.

There was no chance to step out of the small box or even ignore the perturbance as the gentleman cheerfully leaned over to jab the 18 button and stand to a limber, casual sort of attention beside Arthur.

"Just thought I'd thank you for being my lucky charm today." He rumbled as the elevator hummed into life, pulling them up through the building.

Arthur looked down to see the man holding forth a stack of chips and couldn't hold back the derisive snort, "Keep it. Luck had nothing to do with your loaded die. I wasn't even there your whole game."

The nameless individual smiled knowingly, voice falling to a deep undertone, "Ah, but without your delightfully distracting reaction, I would have been denied that previous second that allowed me to switch said loaded die. So for that I again offer my gratitude. You came at an opportune time."

"You'll have to forgive me, then, for not being too enthused with being called a 'pretty gentleman' all for the sake of your gambling."

"Would you prefer 'pretty lady,' then, darling?"

Arthur's jaw tightened. This man was not pompous. He was not snarky. No, on those counts, Arthur's judgments had been completely off the mark. This stranger was a douchebag.

Stopping dead, the point man opened his mouth to regale the gambler with the finer details of just how _much_ of a douchebag he was.

"You-"

Right on time, a smug 'ding' and the whisper-quiet shudder of elevator doors opening cut off the rest of Arthur's angry tirade. He didn't want to turn to look. What he _wanted_ was to keep glaring at the other man, beat him senseless, both verbally and physically, and wipe the damn jaunty grin off his face.

But already, the stranger was looking away, unruffled, and strolling out of the lift. Even Arthur could not deny that continuing to stand and sulk in the ticking time-bomb of an elevator would be ridiculous, especially if the doors unexpectedly closed in his face.

"Are you coming, dear?" The other called over his shoulder, casually tucking his hands into his pockets as he waited for him. Apparently, the talkativeness of the man was not restricted to the craps table and eager crowds.

Swallowing back acidic retorts, the point man merely scowled and stomped out onto the 18th floor.

"Why are you following me?" The pair fell into step as they began making their way down the hall. Cobb had told him to meet him at room 1821, which seemed to be down the hall and to the left. Arthur could only imagine that the other gentleman's room was on this floor as well, a dim hope that was bolstered by the man's reply.

"Let's not look _too_ deeply into this, my reason for being here has nothing to do with you. I'm here on business." He chuckled, footsteps falling heavily on the deep carpet of the corridor.

_Well, thank god for that._

They turned the corner, Arthur's rapid strides somehow keeping good time with the gambler's loping gait. "So this is just coincidence that we're walking together."

"_Utterly_ coincidental." was the cheery retort as a door at the end of the hall swung in and was replaced with Cobb in the frame. His gaze immediately went to the approaching Arthur, growing warm as a rare smile lit up his features. The point man, relieved to finally see the architect after so long, was quick to return the gesture, moving past the now forgotten stranger.

"Long time no see, Arthur." Cobb reached out to clasp his hand.

"Too long." Arthur continued grinning, though the smile faltered upon closer examination of Dom's face. It became all too clear how much Mal's passing and the escape to Europe had cost him. Bags under his eyes the size of suitcases, sandy gray stubble, and a grim aura that had never been there before. Dom Cobb was a man who had won a battle but was still nursing his deep wounds that refused to heal over and scar.

"How are you?" The point man asked in a lower tone, concern seeping into his thin happiness, "You look like you've been to hell and back."

Cobb broke eye contact with a vaguely concealed flinch, "I'm fine."

Ignoring Arthur's dubious expression, the older man's eyes slipped to stare at something behind the slender man. "I see you've already met our forger."

"Excuse me?" Confused, Arthur glanced behind him, turning on his heel to witness the very same damn gambler, who Arthur had almost put out of his mind, coming forward with an easy smile to shake Cobb's hand. Mr. Goddamn. Palm Trees. With the white loafers.

"Not…" Arthur swallowed, cogs creaking to put the appropriate pieces into place to make sense of things, "Not exactly."

"We just happened to bump into each other. Pure coincidence, one could say." Eames said easily, looking at Arthur with no hint of surprise.

_He knew. He already knew who I was_.

"Ah well," Cobb stepped aside, "Arthur, this is Eames. He's going to be helping us with this mission. Eames, Arthur."

The bastard of a gentleman, now named Eames, leaned in to envelop Arthur's willowy hand in his larger one, "A pleasure to finally meet you, Arthur."

"Oh no." Arthur grit out, face stony, "Pleasure's all mine."

Their hands remained clasped a second longer than standards allowed, giving a chance for the new team members to size each other up properly, Arthur especially as Eames had gotten a head start on him since the craps table. The cogs were turning faster as the point man's suspicious began to ring with logical truth.

The photoless file on Eames in the one government database, showing that the man had been clever enough to make sure he stayed without a photo ID. The endless list of casinos that he had robbed or had been banned from. He was a brilliant, albeit cheating gambler, which explained his presence in the Egyptian, anything goes, hive of scum, casino; it was one of the only places he could still filch money from.

It didn't explain the man's odd interest in Arthur, or why he recognized the American before Arthur had done likewise, but there would be plenty of time to figure that out later.

Eames's hand was warm, dominating control even in the simplest of handshakes. Disliking the way he could feel the rough calluses of the other man's fingers on his skin, Arthur's jaw instinctively stiffened and he quickly withdrew from the gesture. Eames did the same, but with a small knowing smile that Arthur liked just about as much as he liked the way the way warmth was still hovering around his palm. Tucking the ridiculous appendages into a fist, Arthur had no choice but to save his confusion for another time; there was a job to do.

Introductions over, Cobb instantly set down to business, ushering them into the hotel room he had just exited. Arthur took note of the two king beds first, a bewildering amount for a single guest, then finally looked back to his old friend.

"We need to talk." He said softly. Cobb immediately frowned, as if he had been expecting the confrontation, and moved closer to Arthur.

"I know. I have a lot to explain to you. But we don't have time. Not now."

"So about Mal, these past six months, this _job _and why the hell you hired someone like-…"

"Eames is good at what he does, I trust him. But as for the rest," Cobb aptly took note of Arthur's exasperated tone and sighed, "After this. After we finish this, I'll tell you everything."

"Cobb." Arthur reached out to take the extractor's arm before he moved too far away. He wanted to let this one go, to give the other some slack, but he _deserved _to know. How could the other man just expect him to go along with everything when he was being dragged down by loose strings and unanswered questions?

"Just trust me. Not. Now."

Meanwhile, Eames had made a straight line for the mini-bar hosted by the luxurious suite. "Free champagne." He grinned, pouring himself a glass, "You seem to be spoiling yourself, Cobb."

"On the contrary, this room is for the both of you." Cobb replied easily, moving away from Arthur to bring out a pair of laptops.

Eames raised intrigued eyebrows, sipping at Ca'Del Bosco while Arthur froze, unsure of how many more unpleasant surprises he could take. However, the two men kept their silence, waiting for the leader to explain.

"We have approximately five hours until our mark returns to his hotel room. Until that time…" Eames was handed a folder and thin computer, "You will stay in this room to learn what you need to know. Eames, you will serve as a distraction and catalyst as our subject's ex-wife. Study the case file. Augustino Cordetti."

"The art smuggler?" The forger took his assignment with amused interest. "Delightful. What could he possibly have to offer?"

"We've been hired to find the location of his main safes where he stores valuable art pieces. Banks, warehouses. Arthur." Likewise, the American took his own tools, though without specific instruction. He had worked with Cobb so long that he held up his own end better without command.

Arthur flicked through the information, "How many levels?"

"Two." Dom Cobb checked his phone, brow furrowed, "We'll enter through our architect's mind, then the mark's, and from there I should be able to extract the information we need."

The cogs, which had already begun churning in his mind, suddenly ground to a dull halt. Arthur looked up from an illustration of artwork the mark had stolen, frowning, "_Our_ architect? What are you gonna do?"

Perhaps it was sudden relinquishment of Cobb's usual role as architect, or the recruitment of Eames, or the abrupt call to work after so many months of silence, but something was already feeling alarmingly off about the entire mission. For the first time since his very first extraction, Arthur felt uncertainty.

Cobb was looking tired and hesitant again, "I haven't built in a long time; I don't want to jeopardize this whole thing because I'm rusty."

Apparently, the skepticism was too evident on Arthur's face because the extractor was forcing himself to smile again and put a reassuring hand on the lankier man's shoulder. A hand that was missing its usual ring on the ring finger.

And even that looked tired and worn.

"I have this under control, Arthur."

He wanted to say something equally comforting. Perhaps that he was sorry for Mal and Phillipa and James, for being put through such terrible things, for anything, really. But for once, the verbose American didn't know what to say. Thankfully, he didn't have to know, because Eames took it upon himself to slide into the moment, silkily as the ridiculous dress shirt he was wearing.

"Out of curiosity, Cobb, how long are you giving us to complete this extraction?" He was on his second glass of champagne already.

Even Cobb looked relieved at the change of subject, "One hour on the first, two on the second, though I would prefer not to take that long. Cordetti is known to act under paranoid ideas and I'd rather get the job done before his subconscious tears us to bits."

"Mm. Righto." Unphased by the new-found danger, Eames shrugged his shoulders with a casual jerk and went to go explore one of the king beds. His easy-going behavior was making Arthur cringe, but he could do nothing more than scowl; he was going to be the better man, even if it killed him.

The only problem was…

"You have five hours." The hotel door shut, signaling Cobb's departure and marking, with an ominous thud, the moment of Arthur's cage being shut.

…this was beginning to seem more and more like it would, in fact, lead to his horrible, agonizing, painful death. He was now alone. With the last man in the world that he wanted to spend five hours in seclusion with. And he was a loafer-wearing bastard to boot.

"So. The best point man America has to provide. Mr. Arthur Ba-"

"Just Arthur is fine, Mr. Eames." Arthur interrupted stiffly, choosing the table as his work area. Eames laughed softly amongst the pillows, calmly sampling peanuts that he had managed to find and downing them with more of the looted sparkling beverage.

"Right. Not your real name anyway, is it?"

"Just about as real as your name, Mr. Eames." Arthur was refusing to look up now, but he could already feel the smug grin on the forger's face.

"Fair enough, darling."

Where Cobb had found the unprofessional criminal was beyond Arthur. Perhaps looks were deceiving, but Eames looked more like an expert of bullshit rather than forgery. Still, a team member was a team member, and Arthur never questioned Cobb's judgment. He decided to keep his harsh thoughts to himself. With a grim sigh, he sat and began spreading out the sheets of information. Even with Eames's presence, the point man could not deny that he wanted to work.

Eames evidently got the message as he said no more and the two sank into research. Arthur switched back from the papers to the laptop for the good part of the first two hours before finally beginning to organize and commit all of his information to memory. It felt good to work again with a purpose instead of creating hypothetical heists. He thrived in plot, in the plan, the intricacies, the details.

Augustino Cordetti was a middle-aged man. He worked as a manager of a Starbucks and was just recently divorced from his wife, Marianna Cordetti, for "irreconcilable differences." On the side, the small, skinny Italian enjoyed aiding gangsters and criminals to steal priceless works of art for various employers. He was a middle-man, the one who took all of the art and stored it, both to protect himself and the ones who hired him. Needless to say, he wielded enough power and responsibility that scared away Marianna and messed with his mental health.

Augustino, or Tino for short, had been diagnosed by three different doctors with Paranoid Personality Disorder. The man trusted no one but himself, and when he wasn't traveling to make new contracts and deals, he was sitting in a three room apartment that housed the best security the world could provide. Or entertaining paid male prostitutes.

Whether or not Tino Cordedetti's mind had been militarized was unknown, but Cobb had scribbled down "very likely" in the files. Good. Crazy, paranoid, and armed were always healthy combinations.

Luckily, the plan itself was not difficult. Arthur supposed that Cobb had drawn this out himself in the previous month. Two levels; supervised by a paid stand-by, he, Dom, Eames, and – Arthur squinted at the print – an architect named Nash would go under into the first level. The point man wasn't entirely sure if this strange architect was any good, but he hoped that he was at least capable of supervising a proper kick and constructing an opera house.

The second level… Arthur was frowning now. Cobb had almost always left the second level's construction to him, but now it seemed it was under the supervision of Eames.

While Arthur appreciated the lack of responsibility for the second level, which would allow him to instead concentrate on the task at hang without worrying about the editable details of his surroundings, he also didn't completely relish the idea of any dream constructed by Eames. If his realm of architecture was the same as his personality, then it was almost a guarantee that the forger would color his picture outside the lines.

Then again, Cobb hadn't exactly provided the best groundwork to build off of.

"I've never constructed a gay dance club." _Really? What a surprise._ Arthur couldn't help being dragged away from his work. In the silence, he had almost forgotten that the forger was even there. Eames was sketching, grinning, but still intent on his progress. "Any words of advice, Arthur?"

"I'm afraid not." Arthur turned back to his computer as soon as Eames looked up, not wishing to be caught staring.

"Ah, the strict maze architect?" Eames tsked, and Arthur could feel his eyes on his back, could sense them in the mirror just above his head, "Effective. But… you don't really need that much imagination for that, do you? Bit boring."

The forger was developing an uncanny ability to get directly under Arthur's skin. And it was beginning to grate. "Are you saying that this puts me at a disadvantage?"

"Not at all." Eames's doodling pencil paused, tapping briefly at the notebook. The Brit seemed to take a moment to go over his drawing, then lifted the instrument to his lips, practically throwing his mocking attitude at the point man and rubbing it over his face. "I'm saying you're a bit boring."

Now Eames had Arthur's full attention. An irksome fact, since it was becoming apparent that the Englishman was used to getting what he wanted. But Arthur was too far gone. There was just something about the forger that kept him on his offensive toes. Standing, Arthur went to go pour himself some brandy, needing a change of pace for his fretting fingers.

"What makes you think you know me so well, Mr. Eames?"

Eames's eyes followed him across the room. The scratching pencil was still; the forger had risen to the challenge and rumbled back his own verbal volley when the point man turned to face him again, tumbler of alcohol clutched loosely in his slender but angrily pale fingers.

"I couldn't resist looking up a thing or two about you. With a title of 'Dom Cobb's Point Man,' Arthur, you'll forgive me if I wanted to come a bit prepared. I'm not fond of surprises, you see."

Arthur barely tasted the rich liquid slide down his tongue and hardly registered the thinly veiled compliment. In fact, he refused to even acknowledge the latter. "Likewise, I'm not very fond of being put at a disadvantage. You seem to have a head start on my profile and I know very little about you in return."

"Mm. Yes." Eames pursed his lips in sympathy, "Not very fair, is it? Very well. What would you care to know?"

A better question would have been on what Arthur didn't want to know. As a point man, he had a thing for collecting as much knowledge as possible. He hummed thoughtfully, swirling his glass once before going to sit down on the edge of his own bed. The chance to find out more about the infuriating man was too good to pass up; even if he was being given the information willingly didn't mean that he wouldn't be able to use it against him later.

"How much are you willing to tell me? That actually isn't a pack of lies?"

"Just enough that I still have that alluring aura of mystery about me." Eames grinned widely, chuckling at his own joke while Arthur rolled his eyes. There was no patience or humor in him to laugh; he had questions that needed answering, and despite Eames's easy-going attitude, he would have to word himself carefully.

"What's your connection with Cobb? Why did he hire you for this?"

Even Eames seemed surprised at the query, but he recovered quickly enough to waggle his finger at Arthur and down the rest of his champagne. "Those are two questions, my dear. But I will answer them. Just for you."

Arthur, against his better judgment, decided to get comfortable. He had spent an hour sitting in a rigid chair whilst pouring over a laptop and files, and before, watching horrible movies on an eight hour flight. Only now did it become apparent that he hadn't given himself any time to rest. So, kicking off his shoes and loosening his tie, Arthur took another sip of brandy and sat back on the couch to listen.

"I'm listening."

"Excellent. Well, my connection with Cobb is that I knew his lovely wife. Mallorie's father and mine had apparently gone to university together, and as a result, while we were never close, we had a small connection, and through her, I met Cobb."

It was almost fascinating to watch Eames talk. Even though Arthur disliked watching him, his eyes were automatically drawn to him. His mouth shifted with each word in a distinct emotion, from subtle smile to small frown. And while the forger did not speak fluently with his hands, he moved them just enough to express himself. Even the damn flute of alcohol in-between his large fingers became a tiny instrument to aid communication.

For the smallest of moments, Arthur was fascinated. If he didn't know any better, he could have said that, in his own subtle way, Eames boasted his own sort of elegance. However, the moment was just as quickly shattered as he looked down and got a good look at the man's loafers, which he was _still_ wearing. Right. Of course. This man was an ass, and he wasn't about to trust him or be any closer to him then necessary.

Eames was still speaking, "As for why he brought me on to this, I have been left in the dark on. He simply called me a month ago and told me to meet him here. Though, considering his little escape from the states not too long ago, I can only imagine that Cobb wants to keep the number of people knowing of his location and intentions to a minimal amount."

"So he trusts you?" Arthur asked gruffly, finding it difficult to believe. So Eames had known Mal. That made sense. Even if he didn't like it.

"Yes, Arthur, as foolish as some may consider it, he does." Eames flicked his gaze over Arthur's frustrated expression and smiled once more, "Next question."

Arthur threw out another one quickly, "What's in it for you?"

"Money." The forger replied without hesitation, shrugging. "I'm getting his share for this. Well. That, and I would be a fool to pass up a chance to work with _you_, Arthur."

Arthur didn't remember when he had managed to finish his drink, but it was now painfully empty, ice cubes clinking dully at the bottom. Unfortunately, he seemed to be glued to the sheets, suspicion marring his forehead. "What do I have to do with anything?"

"Oh, you have quite a bit to do with everything, I'm afraid."

Arthur didn't like the way Eames's voice was starting to sink into the very atmosphere of the room. The rumbling words in their British accented tones. Frowning, he set aside his empty glass, wishing that he didn't have to stay dry for the mission.

"Does this go in hand with how you seem to know so much about me, despite the fact that no concrete files on me exist?"

"When I said that I wanted to come prepared, I didn't rule out the idea that I was curious as well." Eames slowly shifted, pulling his legs around until he could plant his feet on the ground and sit on the edge of his mattress. "I have my references, Arthur, getting information on people that pique my interest isn't a problem."

The point man moved as well, bringing himself to the edge of the bed to face Eames directly. Now he could clearly see the beginning of writing and an elaborate tattoo on the forger's chest, as well as the thickly-set clavicles and-he was staring. Clearing his throat offhandedly, his eyes cautiously made their way back to Eames's face. Unsurprisingly, the other was smirking.

Not only had he been _ogling_, he had been caught. Scowling, the American hurriedly brought the attention back to the conversation. "And, uh, did you find anything particularly noteworthy?"

"Quite a few things, actually." The forger reached out, casually taking Arthur's empty tumbler and setting it down beside his own drained glass, "I'll admit, my favorite little detail was that you're quite a lady-killer. Or used to be. No qualms about getting women to spill details on marks, eh?"

Ignoring Arthur's blank stare of shock, Eames continued, "Needless to say, I had to come and see this for myself."

He didn't know where he had gotten his information. Yes, Arthur had had to directly research a few times, he was hardly to blame that secretaries were the best sources for schedules and information on politicians and businessmen. And maybe some had been rather attractive. Or perhaps others had just needed a bit of distraction and convincing to let a few files out for an hour or so. But this had all been quiet, unable to be documented. How did Eames know?

And how was the ass still smiling?

Arthur scowled in response, unpleased and unimpressed. "Satisfied?"

"No. No, not quite. I think I'll need a better look before I'm quite satisfied." The forger's eyes flicked up and down briefly as he leaned in, breaking into Arthur's personal comfort bubble, "See what's so great about you that makes the girls swoon."

Now it was just getting difficult to process any sort of facts Eames threw at him. Granted, it was starting to get difficult to process just about anything, the whiskey had dulled his senses. Arthur licked his lips, double-checking Eames's face to make sure he was serious. Heaven forbid the man just come to work as a forger on a heist; he just had to have other agendas as well.

"What the hell are you talking about? Are you saying that you came here, that you looked me up, just to find out what makes me tick?"

"Of course not." The forger finally leaned in close enough to make Arthur uncomfortable, gently tucking a hand around his neck and pulling him closer until an unshaved cheek was brushing against his own and lips were purring into his ear.

"I'm here to seduce you, darling."

It was only thanks to his dream-share training that Arthur didn't lash out immediately. Instead, his entire body froze. Even the shivers that threatened to trail down his spine stilled, wobbling about somewhere in his brain where all of his other thought processes had stopped dead. And then, at those damn words, everything came revving back to life, fueled with fury. Flinching out of Eames's reach as if his words had burned, Arthur angrily stood, retreating to his workstation while his cheeks grew hot and his insides seethed.

Of course. He shouldn't have been surprised that this man was not only unfashionable, a cheating gambler, and an all-around dickbag, but also a 'fuck anything that moves' kind of guy.

"Do me a favor." The point man snarled, shoving his laptop open again and refusing to look up into the mirror in front of him, though he could feel Eames's stare, "Put more effort into this job than my seduction, alright?"

"I don't think that will be a problem, Arthur, no need to worry."

Cursing his own curiosity and big mouth, the point man had no choice but to spend the last of his two hours of research seething and unable to concentrate. Even with the pile of work and planning still ahead of him, the warmth of callused hands on his neck and heated breath on his ear still lingered. By the time Cobb arrived to take them to the mark, Arthur let Eames go on ahead, making up an excuse to stay behind just so that he could get a moment alone to himself.

Because it was bad enough to be trapped in a room for two hours with a man who had sensually whispered in your ear. It was even worse when you spent the entire time wishing he would do it again.


End file.
